On Saturday night I witnessed one of those rare moments in life where everything happens the way it should. While walking down sleepy Grand Ave in Los Olivos, a speeding BMW swerved into the on-coming lane pointed in the direction of some innocent kids, (scratch the word innocent), some kids hanging out near the curb (Oakdale style). The driver acted as if he were going to run them down, but with Jerry Rice-like reflexes, swerved back into his lane and went on his way with a hurricane of dust and straw in his wake. Greg Pleiss and I looked at each other in amazement. Before I could say, “Did you see that asshole?”, the planets aligned and a hidden cop car pealed out of the sky. In an instant, we were watching COPS Los Olivos.

The driver was young (junior college age) and so were his female passengers. The Statey cuffed the felon, but didn’t knock his prisoner’s head on the outside of his squad car while shoving him in the back seat. Bummer. Sloppy police work if you ask me. No doubt the influence of our current governor. But I digress – the important part is that, if for just one evening, there was one less BMW driver on the planet and the sleepy town of Los Olivos was safe.

Back to Dinner...

On Saturday night, Trevor, Greg, Christie & I dined at the Los Olivos Cafe’. The Pleiss’ had eaten there a few years ago (before they were the Pleiss’) and since then the café has been the stage for a few scenes of the movie Sideways. No one in our party refused a glass of wine, but we couldn’t help but notice the lack of vino on the table of self-proclaimed wine aficionados, JHK and Mrs. JHK. No red wine, no white win, no pink wine - just a pink t-shirt worn by the eventual runner-up of Sunday’s XC Race.

I would have ordered my own pink t-shirt that evening if the San Marcos Motel in Buellton had wireless internet. They did have a hundred cable TV channels (including HBO & ESPN), so I made Trevor watch Sherman’s March. Sherman was a bad dude. I secretly vowed to race the next day’s event with the same passion and furry of the great general, burning or destroying everything or everyone in my path. Instead, I fell a little short – landing somewhere between Sherman’s March to the Sea and a full Confederate Army Surrender. Fifth Singlespeed O/A. I’ll take it.

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The witch hunt continues